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Wednesday, May 1, 2013

~The Vikings are back in Week 3/chapter 3 of Silver and Spice by Maria MacAuley!~

Hello friends/followers! Welcome to week 3/chapter 3 of Maria MacAuley's Silver & Spice. Now we present to you another portion of a very exciting, romantic and all-around great story. We will be posting a chapter for you to enjoy each week until the story's end. We are looking forward to comments, feelings, thoughts, etc. of what you think for each portion posted. So please be sure to leave a comment in the comments section :)Now I present to you... Silver and Spice!View Prologue and first chapter HERE & chapter 2 HERE

Chapter 3

The heat of a man’s breath against her cheek
startled her awake. 'Hush. Let your companion sleep.' A finger pressed softly against
her lips, leaving a faint taste of sea salt. She stilled in fear as her hands were taken in
a light grip, and the knife sliced through the leather thong, her wrists still
within his grasp. Dropping his dagger Kristr gently rubbed the raised flesh
with his thumb, circling the narrow purpling welts, encouraging the circulation
to return. 'I would not have bound you so tightly if I had known you were so
defenceless, with not even an eating knife in your possession.'

'Mayhap you would not have bound me at all!'
Roisin hissed in outrage. She was angry, at Kristr for stealing her, at
MacRonan for using her, at her father for over-protecting her. Conall, in wanting to protect his daughter
from the harsh aspects of life, had effectively sealed her fate in becoming
nothing more than a helpless maiden. An ability to work a loom or sew a kirtle were
qualities in a good wife, but were not much of a defence against an attacker.
She stared straight up at the dun-brown leather ceiling above her head, the
material snapping and rippling lightly against the wind. She wanted to ignore Kristr
as he continued his gentle massage of her hands and wrists, relief at being
free but dread at the truth that she was anything but.

'I had assumed that any man who lets his
precious goods out of view would have had the foresight to ensure his goods had
adequate protection.' He arched his brow, his voice taunting, 'especially given
the marriage transaction that was due to take place between the goods, namely
you, and MacRonan before the new moon'.

'I am not goods, nor chattel, nor property.'
her voice trembling but rising, making Ciara stir. She wished with all her
heart she believed her words. His cold assessment of her woman’s lot in life
may have been but a few short sentences, but the content chilled her heart. Finally
finding some courage, with the only weapon she had at her disposal, her tongue,
she hissed, 'But you, you … brute of a Viking,
are a kidnapper, a marauder, a berserker, a beast and no man of noble deed.
Stop torturing me with your false gestures of care.'

With a low growl, he released her hands. Roisin’s arms, numb from being in the same
position so long, fell limply to her sides.
‘Think whatever you want, little Roisin, but you... you are now my property, my war prize, my
hostage until one of the menfolk in your life decide that you are worth the
silver.’ His voice was uncompromising in
its tone, before curiously softening to a whisper, ‘I would certainly pay what
you are worth.’ Turning away from him
onto her side she snorted in disgust at his words, and, with a an exasperated
sigh, he left her to her thoughts.

ooooOOOoooo

Earlier that same morning, Conall of Dun na
Shee had made his daily visit to Breda, his wife. Sitting down, he lifted her
prayer beads in his hand, worrying each tiny leather nub as he spoke. 'Breda, Roisin
will marry soon.' He paused. 'You know that. Forgive me my absentmindedness, my
love. MacRonan may seem a little ostenatious for our precious child, but I
believe he will be kind and keep her from harm.' Tracing the shape of the tiny
silver crucifix with his forefinger, he continued talking to Breda. 'She has
your beauty, and generous nature, but she doesn't accept she is becoming a
woman to be loved and protected. She deserves to be cherished and respected.'
He went back to idly rubbing the little beads on the worn Rosary. 'I will see
you on the morrow. MacRonan is expected soon.' The lack of response did not perturb
Conall. In fact if there had been a reply he would have been astounded. Bending
over, he plucked a stray weed from the side of the grave, stood up, crossed
himself and walked slowly back to the rath.

With the Christmas past, Breda had been dead
for fourteen winters. She was taken from him when she was only three-and-twenty
years; much too young to leave this world. Conall had been in love since he first
laid eyes on her. He had impudently
shouted words of encouragement to the young Breda as her father, Seamus of
Cillnasaggart bested her in mock battle. The stocky barrel of a man had taught
his slip of a daughter to use a bow and arrow, and was currently educating her
in the use of a sword. She was no ordinary chieftain’s daughter, and Conall was
besotted.

He was but seventeen summers old himself, an
untried youth and even in this first flush of love he knew the affections he
displayed for Breda would be his last. That he was to be a chieftain himself
was not enough for Seamus. It had taken
five years for Conall to prove himself on cattle raids in the nearby provinces
and trading missions to far-off shores before Seamus would take his intentions
seriously.

After they wed, he continued to love and
nurture Breda's independent spirit, her skill with her bow and her willingness
to help others. When she birthed Roisin,
Conall imagined teaching his infant daughter all that her mother knew. She
would be taught accuracy with a bow, dexterity with a dagger, to be kind and
firm and willing to help those in need. She would grow up to be the wife of a
chieftain, educated, travelled, wise.
Conall, having both a wife and daughter to indulge and love, was a
contented man. When he eyed the gentle sway of Breda’s sweet bottom, her fluid
grace as she walked through the rath, he hoped that the noise of many more
children would fill the hall of Dun na Shee.

Conall’s plans for his little black-haired daughter
ended the night Breda went to tend to one of the women in labour. The labouring mother was a member of the
shepherd’s family, who lived outside the ramparts of the rath. The mother and babe had survived the night,
thanks to Breda’s skill, but she herself
was found the next morning, bruises surrounding her throat and her pallor as
grey as the sky above. Keening in rage and grief, Conall vowed that his three
year old daughter would never be left alone to fend for herself. He prided himself on the gentle daughter that
Roisin had become; the influence of the stoic Ciara keeping her natural
independent nature in check. Every time
he looked at Roisin, he saw Breda at that age, with her liveliness and mischievousness
barely concealed. He wished he could let his daughter live like his wife had
done, but his worries had become too great as the years progressed. Now he had made a match for her in a wealthy
older man who promised faithfully to keep her safe.

When the midday meal had come and gone, Conall still had no sign of Roisin or Ciara. They had promised they would not go
further than one hundred paces of the ramparts. 'Fergus! Diarmuid!' Conall
bellowed for his two most trusted warriors. The men came running, their chieftain's
voice echoing around the walls of the hall. 'My daughters have not come back
from their walk this morning. We must go and find them.' He was furious that he had let his guard down,
listening to Roisin and her pleadings that she needed to discuss 'womanly
things about married life’ with Ciara. Silly girls! When he found them he'd
have them scrubbing floors, repairing tunics and cleaning the hearths until
their respective new husbands came and took the troublemakers off his hands. He
stopped and tried to breathe, his anger fleeting now, worry taking its place.

Choosing horseback, the three men followed
the footprints, two lines of crushed blades of grass, to the stream. The trail
continued to the woods, with no evidence of a return journey. Conall paled, any
fury completely displaced by the horrors he expected to see. Dismounting, he
handed his reins to Fergus and strode into the woods, sword drawn.

oooOOOooo

Fergus looked at the receding form of his chieftain,
and then to the uneasy expression on Diarmuid’s face. On hearing an inhuman howling piercing the
silence, they tore into the trees to find their chieftain hunched over a cloak,
a parchment and a Viking blade. Despite
his earlier animalistic cry, Conall was now silent. For a warrior who had seen death and
destruction on loud battlefields, the deathly silence of his chieftain,
enduring this loss, was unnerving.

Seeing the menacing evidence left behind, Fergus
knew there had to be more to report, signalling to Diarmuid, both men had the
presence of mind to act, the silence unbroken. Conall as a chieftain was a
kind, wise man, a thinker who was not afraid to make decisions. Conall as a
distraught father acted just as they would have done, should they have suffered
the loss of a child. Fergus squinted through the shadow of the
woods, the trail of what looked like three people on foot.

‘Diarmuid, if you ride back with our
chieftain, I shall follow the trail.’
The three trails of footprints concerned Fergus, especially as one set
looked as if they were dragging their feet.
If he was correct, at least one girl was being carried, and the other
was resistant. He shuddered to think
what had become of them; Roisin may have been betrothed outside of the clan,
but her bloodline still flowed from Dun na Shee.

Galloping blindly back to the rath with
Conall, the church bells were rung to raise the alarm but Diarmuid knew it was
too late. No ship had been sighted, no strangers seen. Knowing his chieftain
would not survive the journey without killing himself, the horse or both,
Diarmuid volunteered to ride and inform both Brian of Dun na Shee, and the
true-father of Ciara.

He cursed himself for his short-sightedness,
for trusting MacRonan, for believing him to be honourable to his word, and a
suitable match for his daughter. He could not be trusted to protect her, and he
had not even sailed into the lough yet to claim her as his wife. As far as
Conall was concerned, when MacRonan arrived, the match would be annulled, if he
did not drive a sword through his black heart first. He would sooner see his
daughter live out her days as a spinster at the hearth of the rath, than be a
pawn in this man's treachery, his careless selfish actions impacting on
Roisin’s life. Conall bellowed in outrage, remembering that he had invited the beast
to Dun na Shee early, so that Roisin and he could become better acquainted, and
ease his precious daughter’s fears. His
judgement failed; hers had not.

oooOOOooo

When Brian arrived back with Diarmuid, the
hall of Dun na Shee was in complete disarray. Chairs were overturned, linens
ripped asunder, broken trenchers lay on the floor. The destruction in Conall's
rage was obvious, but now he sat slumped on a bench, silent. Slowly approaching the only father he had ever
known, Brian removed his mantle and gently tugged the stabbed parchment from
his father’s grasp. He fingered the slice through the words, reading the short
text. The language was Irish, but the hand-script did not flow in gentle curves
like their own alphabet. Handing it to
Diarmuid, who read it with an equally grim expression, 'MacRonan will pay for
this travesty against our family.' Brian did not know whose life he valued
more. He loved both girls as sisters, but just as Ciara had expressed to Roisin,
he had no romantic feelings to her a wife. They had never discussed it
themselves, the unspoken agreement between them that this was a union of land,
not of hearts, duty to the soil greater than duty to themselves.

Examining the Norse runes on the dagger, for
once wishing he could read the jagged angular letters, Brian stabbed the dagger
into the table, its hilt reverberating with the force of the blow. 'When do you
expect to see MacRonan, father?'

'Within the next morning, perhaps the
following day.' Conall swallowed. The Vikings would be well on their way to the
dark pagan north by that time, their fast ships gliding along the west coast of
Albion, heading north. Or, depending on the tides passing Rathlin Island, they
may simply make the shorter journey to the settlement of Dubh Linn. Brian suspected it would be the former; if the
Viking traders had indeed been double-crossed by MacRonan, they, and their
treasures, would be sailing far from his greasy grasp.

Conall continued, ‘I had arranged with him to
arrive some days before the marriage so that he could get to know his bride.'
He put his head in his hands, the words choking in his throat as he said them.

Brian realised that with his father in this
state, he would have to act as chieftain to the clan. His decisions would be accepted and actioned;
these lands and people would be his responsibility some day. Calling the warriors together, along with
every able bodied man who could wield a bow or sword, Brian laid out his plans
for retribution. The discussion went on until near dawn. Fergus had reported
the foot tracks through the wood, and the trail of two horses that led to the
far side of the loch. No wonder they had not been seen; it was not expected
that any boat would sail in that channel, the water considered too shallow, but
not for Norse flat-hulled ships.

Brian stood up and gave his decision to the
assembled men. His message, like the ransom note left in the woods, was plain
and simple. MacRonan would not set foot
on Dun na Shee land.

By daybreak, Brian, with the help of Fergus
and Diarmuid, had organised a camp by the lough. MacRonan’s ship would be expected to dock
there. Although exhausted physically and mentally, there he would confront MacRonan
and challenge him to single combat. With Roisin and Ciara’s disappearance, there
had been enough loss of life on their land. No blood may have been shed, but
without proof that his sisters lived, Brian would avenge their abduction. Brian would fight MacRonan one-on-one. He was
not going to leave the camp until he had the deceitful traitor in his sights
and MacRonan’s blood on his hands.

Brian did not see MacRonan as much of a
challenge in a fair contest. The one introduction they had had was not
impressive. MacRonan’s wide girth spoke of good living and no battle training. At
the time he wondered what his father had been thinking, listening to MacRonan's
hollow words of honour and protection. But, Conall, in his single-mindedness to
ensure Roisin’s safety, had ignored the more subtle flaws in MacRonan’s
bearing. Unless MacRonan planned to protect Roisin by
keeping her a prisoner in his home, his fat unfit body would not provide any
security or defence against thieves or pirates. However, today was not the day
to upcast his old doubts to his father; the fine strong chieftain of yesterday
was nothing but a hollow shell today.

oooOOOooo

Sitting in the darkness of the hall, the
hearth unlit at his request, Conall appeared to age a score of years overnight.
The women of the rath clucked quietly in
disapproval and worry. In Ulster, an
unlit hearth, dying embers left unattended, was considered a negative omen, a
portent of death. The fire had never
been extinguished for a single night in the past three generations on the
rath. Brian’s heart felt as cold, rough and
dead as the blackened ashes, spread below the unfilled iron cooking pot. All he could see in his mind were three women
in his life, the three he had lost, the three he had failed. Breda, his one
true love, Roisin, his true-daughter and Ciara, his foster daughter whom he
loved as though she were his own flesh.

There was not a long wait. MacRonan's ship
had been spotted sailing into the lough, his colours flying from the mast as if
he were a king returning from battle. The camp at the side of the lough proved
to be no welcoming committee, cheering the victor home with the spoils of war.
As the ship docked at the small wooden deck Brian drew his sword. 'Halt, MacRonan.'
He looked up at his once future brother-by-marriage, bedecked in jewels and
medallions fit for a queen. His appearance was that of a jongleur, changing his
from man to woman to man, for the merriment of the audience. He wanted to
vomit. 'Your betrothed has been taken hostage, along with my foster sister.' Pausing, he took a deep breath to steady his
rage. 'The ransom is six pounds of silver, and unless you wish to lose your
life this morn, you will tell me what has happened, and how you intend to make
right this wrong.'

Brian stared up at MacRonan, unfazed by the
man’s wealth. 'I am an honest merchant! That Viking Kristr Halsrason is intent
on destroying me. He wants nothing but my silver and gold, and will use any
means to get it. Even ransom.' Brian’s eyes narrowed when MacHyde halted
mid-speech, balking at his own words. It was evident from his grey sweaty face that
MacHyde realised he had said too much.

Brian shouted as loud as he could manage, his
normally smooth olive skin now purple and mottled with rage, ‘I did not state
they were captured by Viking, you brigand! What makes you say that it was this
man who has taken my sister? Why would you throw a name around so freely if you
did not have a quarrel with him?’ Giving the clan battle cry, he yelled at his
enemy, 'disembark now so that I can run you through, you snivelling excuse of a
man! I'll cut off your ballsack and throw it to the sea, along with your
tainted silver, and your worthless corpulent body can follow both to a watery
grave!'

MacRonan gave a signal to his men to turn. He had no intention of letting the younger,
fitter man best him in combat. Ideally
he would and to send in his man, Lorcan on his behalf. Lorcan fought all his battles, but today’s
circumstances would result in himself and all his crew losing their lives at
the hands of the two-score assembly of Dun na Shee men. He could not, however,
resist a final insult. 'I think I shall
take my leave this day. Perhaps Halsrason and his Viking brothers will return
your womenfolk with a Norse bastard in their wombs. If so, my offer for your
ruined sister still stands. Or Ciara, your own betrothed.’ He shrugged. ‘It
matters not to me.'

With this final insult Brian's temper
exploded. He ran to climb the side of the ship hacking viciously at the timbers,
as the oarsmen started to row furiously. His actions caused little damage.
'Unleash the arrows!' he yelled, but it was too late. The ship was retreating
down the lough at such a speed, the weapons would not cause any harm to either
ship or crew. 'We must follow! I want him dead!'

Grabbing
him by the shoulders Fergus, his cold even tone freezing Brian to the spot, 'It
will be done. Not today. Not on the morrow. Even if your sisters do not survive
this ordeal, their deaths will be avenged. As my future chieftain, you have my
oath.'

Bio

Maria MacAuley is from Derry, Ireland and has a degree in Celtic Languages. She is married to the love of her life, and they live in relative peace with two cats.

She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.

If Maria were to choose her favourite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.

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About Me

A.R. is an animal lover who was born and raised in Bronx, NY and is the oldest daughter of two girls. She holds an Associate’s Degree in Computer Science and Information Technology, which was only briefly used. She’s a mother of two entertaining teen boys (as well as a lovely fawn Chihuahua, whom she considers her furry daughter.) She’s also a wife to a delightfully handsome and amazingly funny man-beast. She loves anything dragon and fantasy related. In her free time she enjoys exercising, writing, listening to music, hiking, cooking, dancing and reading. She also loves a great adventure in and out of a book!She writes to free her mind of its constant wondering and clutter. She thrives on the fact she can share some of it with readers that have the same passion for a great story.